As the Secretary pinned the heart-shaped medals on Mac and Ski, another wave of emotion swept the group. Several women were openly crying, and even some of the men were clearly working at keeping themselves in check.
There were no reporters at the ceremony. No photos were taken. No recordings were made, because as far as the outside world was concerned, it never happened. The generic language in the citations and the lack of specific dates only hinted at what had happened, and that was how it would be for the next twenty-five years or more.
Following the ceremony, the Secretary approached the Skipper and shook his hand. "I want to commend you on your persistence, Captain Jackson. If you had not persisted, if you had not refused the PUC unless family members could share in the ceremony, Sir, this day might never have happened. I salute you, Sir!"
Then he turned to Mac. "And you, Lieutenant McDowell. We could use more officers like you, across the board. I'm damn proud to have met you!"
With practiced political savvy, the Secretary quickly shook the hands of the other awardees, making sure he had missed no one. Then he left quietly by the side door.
Master Chief Thornton dismissed the Halibut crew, and the crew members mixed with the guests as they exited Rodman Theatre through the main door to the rear of the auditorium.
Mac hobbled to the back as quickly as he could, catching up with the former Soviet diver, proud ex-Ukrainian citizen, and newly accepted political refugee on a fast track to becoming an American.
"Good to see you, Sergyi Andreev," Mac said.
Sergyi popped to attention. "And you El-Tee." He paused for a moment, and then reached out and grabbed Mac's hand. "And my friend… Mac!"
And his escorts hustled him out the door.
AFTERWORD — REYKJAVIK, ICELAND
Höfði House, the former residence of John Greenway, British Ambassador to Iceland in the early 1950s, is a grim structure set on a bare plain facing the Atlantic just north of Reykjavik. Proclaimed haunted by the locals, the British had sold it in 1952 after pictures unaccountably fell off the walls. Memoirs of one of the earliest occupants of Höfði recount the presence of the spirit of a young woman who was either a suicide or drowning victim. The locals, however, insist that the house sits atop a Viking burial site, and that the liquor cabinet, therefore, is frequently raided by spirits.
Early on the morning of October 11, 1986, U.S. Secret Service and their Soviet counterparts checked their joint security set-ups and conducted their final joint rounds of Höfði House to ensure the safety of their respective country's leaders — President Ronald Reagan and Secretary General Mikhail Gorbachev.
For several days behind-the-scenes, hundreds of staffers on both sides had been frantically convening meetings, setting protocols, outlining proposals, arguing points… all the million-and-one preparations that make for a successful summit. A driving October rain set the scene for the President's Daily Brief, normally presented by an experienced CIA briefer to the President, the Vice President, the Secretary of State, the Secretary of Defense, and the National Security Adviser. On this still dark morning, speaking privately behind closed doors to the President and Secretary of State George Schultz, the briefer called attention to a veiled message the CIA had sent them. The briefer handed a large brown envelope to the President and said, "These are transcripts of the most recent submarine cable intercepts — a conversation between Marshal Sergei Akhromeyev and Fleet Admiral Vladimir Vasilyevich Sidoro…"
"That's their equivalent of our Chairman of the Joint Chiefs calling their Pacific Fleet Commander," Schultz interjected.
"I know, George," Reagan said with audible impatience.
"In the transcript Marshal Akhromeyev is briefing Admiral Sidoro on the Army's position, Sir. Apparently, the Soviet army is opposed to Gorbachev because he's open to making agreements with the United States. Soviet commanders are actually debating assassinating him. It looks like Marshal Akhromeyev is coordinating the effort. The CIA believes the only way Gorbachev will survive is for him to be perceived as successful at this summit."
Schultz raised his eyebrows.
"We do not believe Gorbachev is aware of these dealings," the briefer said quietly.
"And the rest?" The President indicated the remaining several pages, divided into two packs.
"These charts show the exact positions of the entire Soviet ballistic missile submarine fleet as of midnight, Sir. The photos," he pointed to a small stack of clipped photographs, "are the latest photos of the nosecone and components from the recent failed Soviet missile test, along with a CIA analysis of what caused the failure."
The President spread them out on the table in front of them.
"It's very unlikely that Gorbachev has seen any analysis of this failure," the briefer added, "because we have the failed parts."
Gorbachev and his party arrived at Höfði House at 10:30 a.m. sharp. After a brief photo-op with the press, the two most powerful men in the world settled down before a large fireplace on the ground floor, while the rest of both delegations moved to the second floor. The two leaders faced each other from identical overstuffed natural leather chairs set at an angle with the crackling fireplace over their shoulders and a small coffee table between the chairs to the President's left and the General Secretary's right. The President held the brown envelope loosely in his lap while they exchanges pleasantries.
"This may be our only opportunity, Mr. Secretary…"
"Please, Mr. President, call me Mikhail." The General Secretary smiled warmly.
"My friends call me Ron," The President reached out with a large, weathered hand, and the General Secretary took hold. They shook warmly.
"You obviously came prepared to show me something, Ron."
"I did, Mikhail." The President opened the envelope and handed the General Secretary the Russian-language transcript with the pertinent parts highlighted. He leaned back, crossing his left ankle over his knee.
Gorbachev crossed his ankles and read the transcript silently for several minutes. Then he looked up; his face had paled, causing the birthmark in his right forehead to purple. "This is authentic?"
Reagan nodded.
"Am I to know how you got this?"
Reagan silently shook his head from side to side.
"You understand what this means for this Summit?" Gorbachev phrased the question firmly, leaning forward.
"I do, Mikhail, I do…" Reagan's voice trailed off. "I have more." He handed Gorbachev the packet of photos and the analysis. "This is…" he started to say.
"I know what it is, Ron." Gorbachev scanned the photos silently for a minute. "How did you possibly obtain these photographs?"
"You know that I cannot tell you that, my friend." Then Reagan handed Gorbachev the marked charts.
"But… but… even I do not know this information. Not even Sidoro knows this." Gorbachev sat quietly in his easy chair, obviously contemplating what he had just learned.
"You should understand, my friend, that I have a fast-attack sub within short-range shooting distance of every one of your boomers."
"Boomers?" Gorbachev's voice betrayed some stress.
"It's what we call ballistic missile submarines."
Gorbachev nodded.
"Open a missile launch door," Reagan added, "and…"